


the gates are not too small not if I let you in

by sollys



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angels, Demons, F/F, Guardian Angels, Guardians - Freeform, Humor, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Prophets, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-06 22:25:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5433038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sollys/pseuds/sollys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zoe, the prophet, (the woman in the cave), tells her this :</p><p>I.	She’ll be born.</p><p>(Shaw wonders if the prophet has a dry sense of humor, or God really is torturing her.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not about staying true to mythology but sort of merging different versions of it to create a new one.

i.

She is surprised to say the least, when they tell her. 

It’s a normal day in the precious and luminescent yards of Valhalla, and as she walks by the fountain of Venus to her right, (God likes to amuse Themselves, she’s learned, and who can blame Them, when there’s so much beauty in being the only one to know the Truth), the water splutters and dances and waves, good morning, probably, since by the looks of it, it hasn’t realized she’ll never respond.

She scowls as usual, and keeps going, passing by the Golden Temple, to reach the small opening further down the marble path, where she knows Johnathan the Angel is.

(And the peaches. She hasn’t had a good meal in forever – too many Worthy to save, and Foreigners to turn.)

Sunlight drapes over her like duvet, making her tattoos shine under the excessive attention, and she offers a rare smile ;

She’s always been one to take pride in her marks. Deep, and stark black, they look like they seep through her skin and run along her bloodstream.

Sameen makes a turn for the rocky path which leads to Harold's, and by the God, this man, even when in heaven, he’s still overwhelmed by paranoia. As if the Underground will suddenly climb a billion feet up and infiltrate the Gates. As if he doesn’t already have a Second Order Angel as a guard dog –

Pain sears through her spine, where she knows the string of feathers, (one of the nicest paintings on her firm body), is located, and even though it hurts, she is not fazed. She mutters a “sorry” upwards and keeps going.

Leave it to Them to take away all the fun. Silently, and trying not to process the thought, she files away the complaint for later.

The telltale image of wires carved on a flat, large stone ahead of her, signals her arrival at Harold’s old hut, humble and low – profile as he always has been.

“Shaw,” she hears just a second before she reaches up to snatch a peach out of the closest tree, ready to feel ambrosia trickle down her tongue and fill her body with energy, and turns around to glare at Reese.

“John.”

He smiles smugly at catching her off guard but she only scoffs, turning around and hastily shoving the fruit in her mouth. John, she can deal with, during the best of days, with his silly smirks but not so stable morals.

Well, the only moral they’ve ever needed to be stable is Them, anyway.

“We were expecting you.”

That, she doesn’t anticipate. Absently, she toys with the small knife she snuck in a while back when she finally returned home, holstered safely by her hip and providing the much needed dose of adrenaline she’s gotten used to being provided with ever since she’s spent so much time Down. There’s burning under her fingertips, subtle but insistent – a reprimand, by Them, but she thinks They indulge her a little bit, just this time.

Shit, this must be serious then.

Narrowing her eyes, she tries to smother it out of John. But no Guardian is a match to an Angel, although she'd like to believe, (knows it to be true, vastly,) that she can take him down in a fight. John, unsurprisingly, smirks again and turns around and heads for the hut.

She grumbles nothings behind him.

When Harold walks up straight to her as she goes passes through the threshold, she frowns even more if possible. He’s holding a cup of tea, steam curling around in hoops in front of his face, making him look like a funny old man. She smells the beverage and wonders if it’d be too much to ask for a beer later, but there is no chastising on Their behalf inflicted on her body.

“What’s going on?” She asks against the sunny, sweet air, caressing her skin, too sweet, and lets suspicion show like wet paint smudged on canvas.

Harold and John share a glance that speaks more itself than the words surely to follow.

“You have a Protégée.”

.

ii.

They teach them ; gravity is no such thing as limitation. Angels defy it by nature – Guardians gain its trust not in spades, but small handfuls, short seconds during which it’s easier to raise your feet and jump, moments in which a person without wings shouldn’t be able to fly sky high at all.

Gravity, is no such thing as limitation, They teach, but it still comes crushing down on her when the man in the glasses tells her.

Guardians come and go, jump off the clouds to rest their weak feet on earth, then push down and jump up to savor Their kingdom later. She knows, understands why it is important that there aren’t many ; 

Guardians, against all belief, are immortal, whilst Angels aren’t. That is the second thing she learns from her father, some nebulous time, centuries ago. 

She doesn’t die. She hurts, gets stabbed, gets Controlled, marks her body with scars and litters it with black carvings, but she never dies. John dies. Oh, how easy it is. Wings are a beauty over the skyline, majestic and Their pride, but weak. Snap a feather and it’s all it takes to destroy them. Melt under the sun, and sensitive to the touch – Sameen has never wanted something she isn’t supposed to have.

Sameen has never wanted anything, except a good meal – and a fight, maybe, although They’ve never been too happy about that. She’s never wanted wealth, or power, or love, although she comprehends she has that by default. One time she asked, why They thought she’s deserving of Their compassion, and They only sent Aeolus to caress her tan, warm skin with goosebumps on its wake.

Sameen feels not ; but Worthy she’ll be deemed forever.

(They give her half a decade.)

.

iii.

As if the aftermath of World War II wasn’t enough, the Vietnamese war rages and roars, the Berlin Wall has been built and the Sahara desert has been repeatedly abused by bombs and experiments.

Each time John comes back up, she grows a bit more amused, poking him with the end of her finger on swallow wounds and dirty biceps. His eyes look emptier as time goes by however, and she knows when not to push. John has always cared, advertently and with purpose for the Worthy, in a way she has never understood.

She’s saved her own handful, yes, but never because there’d be guilt lurking around if not. She does it because it’s what she’s good at, because God wants her to.

John, his face a deep ruddy hue, drops a hiss when she pours acid on the open skin, and she wonders if the difference stands in the making.

The Angel grunts a thank you when she’s done with bandaging the cut, and gets up to recede in his own little world.

(The difference stands in her.)

Shaw has been waiting, counting the days until she knows John will return with brittle bones and sagging wings, and God will send her to take his place.

She’s waiting patiently, but she doesn’t have to wait long.

It’s 1968.

It’s 1968, and Shaw raises her hood for the first time in 24 years.

(This is before.)

.

iv.

It’s 1970.

A sunny, hot day, with the sun burning bright over her cloak. People are gathered around the college campus with signs and poisonous words on their tongues ;

Fools. Words won’t end the war in Vietnam.

It’s May 4th, 1970, and Sameen stands stock still against the slight breeze, sixty feet away from the chaos, in the shadows. They have been silent as of late, letting her make her own decisions – but really, there is no mind to be made up about this one.

A guard raises his gun and a rebellious shout is heard, as Shaw clenches her jaw and bites her tongue.

Four people fall, another nine buckle.

Amidst the crowd, a blonde Demon weaves in and out of her eyesight, and her palm tightens its hold on the knife. 

Martine smiles with evil seeping through the gaps when she catches her eyes and Shaw's fist twitches.

.

“It wasn’t that bad of a year,” John mumbles over the Himalaya Mountains as they watch the sun prepare for its grand finale.

Shaw scoffs. Takes a swig of the hard liquor she found back in Russia on her way here and mutters, “we lost 73.”

The sky is painted blue with orange streaks, although white is mostly what singles out. Fog can be quite tricky up here.

John turns. “It wasn’t your fault.”

She’d like to ask who’s supposed to take the blame.

.

v.

She walks through the green spots on white marble, stops in front of the chocolate – skinned woman who she’s come to associate with Justice.

Joss smiles.

“Why?” Sameen asks, cutting straight to the point.

The woman raises an amused eyebrow. 

“Not keen on change, I presume?” Her hands are occupied with grooming the tree. Oranges, by the looks of it, and Shaw internally growls at the aroma.

“Are you messing with me?” Her tone better sound as angry as she feels.

Joss sighs but continues to trim a few edges here and there. “You lost 70.”

She lost 73. Shaw wraps her head around the notion, feels like she might know where Their order stems from.

“A punishment then?”

“No,” she stops, “…a gift.”

Shaw frowns to accommodate the confusion overwhelming her, stares suspiciously at the Angel until her eyes burn from the exposure.

She blinks.

“They trust you.”

She opens her eyes a split second later.

Carter is nowhere near the tree.

(This is now.)

.

“Will you tell me anything about it?”

It’s dark, night falling over Valhalla, and while she watches the Worthy talk and chat excitedly around the bonfire, she prefers not to participate.

(Bear hums pleasantly under her hand and it’s somehow enough.)

The gentle gust of wind translates to “no” for as long as she’s been on the receiving end of it, and she rolls her eyes despite herself.

Of course They’d want to torment her – 

– Bear whines loudly in the middle of that thought and her head snaps instantly towards the offending dog.

“Traitor,” she mutters even as she scratches him between the ears.

.

vi.

Four years earlier, she will jump down the Rocky Mountains, push her hood back so that it won’t get caught on the protruding sticks.

Deep inside a cave, there will be a woman, taller perhaps, enticing but dangerous, and Sameen will scowl at the smirk directed at her when she steps through the threshold.

“I have been expecting you.”

.

Other Guardians take over in shifts ;

No one stops by their sheer will unless they don’t trust themselves to remain Worthy.

Harold moves a chess piece that makes no real difference to Shaw, it could be a bishop or a queen for all that she cares. He eyes her intently before she executes an eye – roll and slides a piece two steps forward.

Harold purses his lips. “Have you been paying attention at all?”

Shaw smirks.

Harold shakes his head annoyed and takes it down with a flick of his wrist.

.

To be honest, Shaw’s not big on the moral high ground.

Sometimes she wonders if she’d be Underground if she hadn’t been raised by Jacob and Fatima Shaw, by the people she called parents out of necessity.

Being Worthy is mostly a choice ;

Sometimes you’re destined to be that and change in the progress.

Pinpointing the moment that she made this choice is hard, but fine, she’ll take a guess ;

March 6th, 1836, Alamo, Texas, a man with black, ruffled hair died and a woman told a child with tears in her eyes to run.

And so she did.

.

(This is now.)

Zoe, the prophet, (the woman in the cave), tells her this :

I. She’ll be born.

(Shaw wonders if the prophet has a dry sense of humor, or if They really are torturing her.)

.

Apparently, according to Harold, sitting under a tree in the beginning of summer in Manila, Philippines (read : a very, very hot summer in one of the most crowded capitals of Asia), is somehow important to the greater good.

Greater good her ass.

(Literally, her ass is numb and aching over the place where she has been forced to rest on for the last say – two hours.)

Harold, however, seems content and almost thrilled to stare at nothing but rich people dressed to the nines as they move around the tables and talk to each other like they haven’t said a million bullshit behind each other’s backs. Also, you know what's worse?

There she is, in a – God forbid – tea party, social gathering – whatever, Sun is slapping her on the face repeatedly, and the beach is right there, right over there.

All she has to do is take five steps away from the tents and the crowd and the awfully cunning men in suits and go jump, but of course, Harold, (the nerdiest nerd to have ever appeared in this nerdy world), for whatever reason feels the need to have company on this small field trip of his.

(And of course God doesn’t want to lose Their Wise One now do they? So basically she’s pretty much stuck with him.)

Invisibility can only help so much ;

It keeps people from coming over and chat with her – well, if they don’t question her very unusual outfit first, that is. The cloak is sticking to her skin, and she can feel a bead of sweat form on her forehead just as Harold turns around to face her with an exuberant smile on his face.

“Isn’t this lovely?”

Nerd. Absolute idiot.

She stretches her lips almost painfully to deliver a sarcastic smile while resting her head on the palm of her hand. 

“Yeah Finch,” she starts, faux – excited, “you stole the words right out of my mouth.”

She firmly rolls her eyes at how long it takes for the Wise One to realize she’s being ironic.

“Ms. Shaw,” he states, “it is such a rare occurrence that I go outside. And this is a rather splendid opportunity to work on your skills – watch from the Grandmasters!”

He gestures (exasperatedly if you ask her) towards the chessboards and the tables in display amidst the crowd. Shaw is half – way scoffing when she notices Harold’s gleaming eyes and satisfied posture as he rests against his cane and watches the Simultaneous Exhibition.

“Besides,” his eyes crinkle, flutter against the sunrays, “you won’t be seeing me after this year. Who knows what new games they will teach you down here? You will see, you shall miss our little sessions sooner or later.”

Sameen scowls, stares at Harold even though he won’t stare back. He's happy, she can tell, but a bit sad that she’s leaving although he’s the one that’s always said “They come first.”

Not God, but the Worthy.

The feeling doesn’t sit well with her, and she doesn’t like being missed, cared for. Just like she doesn’t miss anyone. She appreciates certain people, has learned to tolerate a certain black woman and a tall, icy blue – eyed man, and the man in the glasses. (And Bear, let’s not forget the dog, everyone.)

However, Shaw doesn’t do feelings. This she knows.

Shaw does not feel. She chooses, listens and executes, but there’s no emotion behind her besides a tinge of well – managed anger.

This she knows.

But Harold’s hands clap when one of his idols finishes three matches at once, and his cane falls in the process.

Nerd. Absolute idiot.

Sameen picks it up. “Sure, Harold.”

.

On January, 1st, 1976, Sameen Shaw descends.


	2. the touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _She surges forward to catch the kid before impact for some unknown reason, feeling her own hands come to hold her firmly despite the laughs and gurgling sounds Samantha produces._

I.

“Hello Lionel.”

It’s kind of evilly satisfying, the way Fusco's cup of coffee flies all over his arms right before landing, hot and burning, on his crotch.

The increasingly indignant sounds he makes afterwards and the condescending glares of the audience around him, are surely a plus.

Shaw smiles wickedly as the last of his hisses die out and he stops rocking back and forth on his seat – turning on his ass to glare at her in what he must suppose is an intimidating manner.

Well he does deserve some kudos for the effort.

In Olympiahalle Innsbruck, Austria, the weather is as cold as it gets, and she’s grateful for her natural high body temperatures, finally making themselves useful. That’s more than she can say for the human in front of her, who's as bundled up as Hitler was back while he was trying to invade Russia.

“What the hell is wrong with you people?” He barely manages to keep his voice low, and once more, the woman to his left turns and gives him the crazy eye. He smiles sweetly, but all she does is cringe and turn back towards the game.

Shaw laughs.

Fusco glares.

“Be careful Lionel,” she teases in a low voice, “you don’t wanna get called crazy now do ya?”

His eyes narrow but she remains unfazed, amused lips only slightly tugging towards a sneer – just to remind him of where exactly he stands.

He turns back around and places a towel over the wetness on his pants.

“What do you want?” He mutters discreetly.

“Well,” she pretends to polish something off her nails, “right about now?”

Fusco gives her the stink eye from over his shoulder.

“A steak.”

How can she help herself? Infuriating Fusco is just so entertaining.

He bristles. “I am not –”

But this is no time for fun.

“ – in the States.” She interrupts lowly and dangerously. “As you should be.”

Fusco gulps down. “What are you –”

“I searched for you Lionel.” She states again, cold humor staining her voice, as if it is incredulous, impossible to comprehend that a Guardian would look for a mere human, neither Foreigner or Unworthy. “For over a month.”

Her hand has slowly been inching towards the back of his seat, and Shaw’s hand grips it tightly, feeling it break a little under her strength. She leans in menacingly to the back of his ear, hears Fusco’s heartbeat pick up. 

“So right about now,” she whispers, “would be a good time to give me a reason not to throw you in that hockey field and enjoy it all the while.”

His breath catches on his throat.

Good. Fear might get her somewhere. She has a mission, one that needs to be completed and it doesn’t include running around the globe to find a Passenger.

“Yeah, yeah I got it okay?”

She sneers. He does a double take.

“Look, I’m sort of here on a date –”

She cracks the chair even more.

“ – which I will abandon of course.”

Shaw smiles, satisfied. She leans back in her chair and watches as Fusco grumbles and shakes his head, gathering his stuff unhurriedly.

“Who the hell brings a date on a hockey match anyway?” She asks, because she’s bored and Fusco is slow.

It’s February 13th, and yeah she gets the point, although it doesn’t the least bit appeal to her.

He shoots her an incredulous look.

“In Austria.” He points out.

She shrugs. “Are you actually staying after the Championship is over?”

Fusco stops altogether and glares at her for solid five minutes.

“Is she even here?”

“She stayed back at the hotel.” He mutters reluctantly.

She laughs as she stands and turns away. “Figures.”

Right when she walks up the stairs to the exit, she hears loud and clear :

“In Austria!”

The hoots and shouts directed at him are only adding up to her amusement.

.

She spends three years attempting to adjust. Learning people’s ways in a manner she has never had to before, trying to tell the difference between a hippie and an idiot.

None if you ask her.

Which shows exactly how much she’s gained from this three years experience. 

(Zero.)

.

In 1979, January, she celebrates. Champagne style and all. By herself in a tiny loft at the edge of New York.

This year she gets some action.

.

During March, and after countless of pressuring from Shaw’s part, Fusco finally manages to get his mind together and find out when the girl is supposed to be born.

December.

Not a peep about whether she’s Worthy, a Foreigner, a Passenger, a troll or whatever.

Fucking prophecies.

.

April and May pass by in a haze, she finds out minor things like where the baby will be born, what zodiac she’ll be, whose daughter she’ll become.

.

June and July she spends gathering other information, regarding Protection and Protégées, what happens when they turn out to be Foreigners, what happens when they’re Worthy, what happens – bla, bla, bla.

.

In August, Joss appears out of nowhere behind a bar in a beach where flower power has found its home for the year.

“Shaw.”

“Joss.”

The drink in her hands is cold but not soothing.

“Heard you have four months.”

“True.”

Joss looks even darker amongst the white hippies surrounding them.

“You ready?”

“Always have been.”

There’s a bonfire not far away, Shaw thinks that’s where the heat might be coming from.

“Shaw.”

“Joss?”

She looks up.

“It was nice seeing you.”

Joss alternates the flames' direction as she goes and Sameen can finally breathe more easily.

.

September and October mean nothing. 

She hates this part, sitting around, waiting for One when she could be saving hundreds of them.

.

On November she moves.

On November she travels to the Nueces County, to Bishop, Texas.

On November she stands outside a small, uncomfortable house, and scowls after the clouds and the rain.

On November she spots a woman with a huge belly across what has to be the lamest park ever, and she sighs.

.

December 5th, 1979.

A baby is born, and a woman who looks mildly indifferent tags her with the name Samantha.

Samantha Groves.

The mother coos. “Baby Sam, baby Sam…”

Sameen almost laughs.

.

II.

Samantha proves to be, well, quite the troublemaker.

And her mother ;

Quite not enough.

Sameen stays in the shadows, witnesses the mother try to feed the baby whilst she won't sit still.

The baby needs to eat.

The mother doesn’t have enough patience.

.

She rolls her eyes. It hasn’t even been three months and her interference is already needed.

Georgia Groves has gone to sleep, Samantha everything but.

Shaw stays invisible, pads silently towards the other side of the room, where the crème colored crib is situated against the yellow wall.

Not a very nice décor from an aesthetic point of view.

She reaches the offending creature and looks over.

It strikes her now, how this is probably the first time she’s taken a good look at the kid, but whatever, it's not like there’s anything even remotely characteristic at this age.

(Big, almond – ish hazelnut colored eyes, small lips that tug upwards and short hair that have already started growing into messy curls. She’s kind of – 

– nah, nope.)

The baby is rolling around in the crib like a pig rolls around in mud. Is this supposed to be the cute part about babies? Because if it is, Shaw's not really getting it. All this does is give her a massive headache, what with the kid turning over and over again like its life depends on it. Which it doesn’t.

No, unfortunately, its – her life depends on Sameen, who would much rather strangle her than have to deal with this shit.

So, annoying her from the first three months ;

Bad move.

But let’s focus on the task at hand.

Shaw clears her throat, attempting to get the baby’s attention. Samantha stops only for a second, looking around with her tiny eyebrows scrunched up. Actually, it’s kind of scary, how her head bobs from one direction to another with no warning.

Shaw scowls.

The baby moves on.

Great. First meeting and already the communication is top stuff.

Shaw clears her throat again.

Finally, after a while, (and three or four barrel rolls), the baby halts and looks up at her general direction. Suddenly, she gurgles, points her small finger towards Shaw and awkwardly moves it around.

Which is weird, because she can't see Shaw.

Shaw hasn’t read the manual, doesn’t really know how baby development goes, but she understands the 3 month old is probably just starting to understand she even has arms.

She rolls her eyes. That won’t fly.

‘Stop being a baby.’ She thinks, then realizes what it is exactly that she's said and rolls her eyes again. ‘Feed.’

Ordering usually works, transfers Shaw's wishes in the other person's head.

This way Samantha can't even hear her voice. And Shaw doesn’t have to deal with a baby that will start screaming at nothing therefore placing her cover in jeopardy.

It works like this ;

Guardians can control feelings, reign them when needed, but the more they feel, the less they can manage other people’s feelings.

That is why Shaw has mastered this ability after all.

She doesn’t feel.

Which is why when the baby only continues babbling away, and then restarts rolling around, Shaw frowns, and pretends she doesn’t kick the crib so that the baby cries and the mother comes to feed her.

What an utter pain in the ass.

.

There’s something seriously, seriously wrong with this baby. 

It's only been six months and she's already proving to be as annoying as it gets. Why isn't she crying, dammit?

.

Because she’s clapping. Apparently, there's a loose screw somewhere in her head. Clapping won't get her milk, or a freaking change of diapers.

Clapping will only get her sweet talk and hugs from her mother. That won't help her grow up.

(Thank God Shaw knows how to execute some well – placed kicks.)

.

It’s July, too hot in Texas, and she sweats, but keeps silent.

“There's nothing you can do.” John says for what seems to be the hundredth time.

Shaw turns and stares at him sternly. The moans and shouts from the door have moved to the living room, but the noises are still echoing around the wall.

“I can stop her.” Shaw says after a particularly loud scream, and after finding out that clenching her jaw isn't helpful enough. “I can stop both of them.”

John makes two steps forward, and the cloak swishes as he crosses his arms behind his back and sighs. “Humans must make their own choices.”

But what is the point of being a Guardian if she can't guard her mission?

Shaw walks away, follows the familiar corridor to the baby’s room and sees it look around confused, young and vulnerable.

She clenches her jaw even tighter.

The mother has the problems.

Shaw sees now.

.

II.

“You can't.”

Shaw crosses her arms across her chest angrily.

“Well why not?”

Joss sighs exasperated. She seems just as frustrated as Shaw feels, but she’s obviously handling it better.

“Are you really going to leave a kid motherless Shaw?”

That kid is far better off without a mother anyway. But of course, leave it to Joss and Harold to rant about morals and human lives and limits.

“She’s not my problem.”

Joss turns and glares at her. “Then make her your problem.”

.

One night, a cold, September’s night, Samantha stirs in her crib and then shakes her head. 

There's a container next to her, emptied out and the cubes lie around in a heap. No wonder why the kid’s not sleeping. There's no space.

Shaw throws an amused glance, then continues to peel the apple where she sits by the window ledge. Her skin prickles under the moon and it's gonna rain soon but she thinks she can handle it. Besides, just the mental image of John drying off his wings against the water drops is enough to make her day.

There’s a small sound from the corner of the room, and Shaw looks up again, pensively tilting her head as she regards the child. It's clear after a while that Samantha is whining towards the door, for her mother, probably.

Rather futile if you ask Sameen, since that mother is currently passed out on her couch, two structures away.

The baby whines again ;

Shaw eats a small piece of fruit undeterred.

Samantha produces a positively weird choking sound all of a sudden and chuckles, looking towards what looks suspiciously a lot like her way, and clapping her hands. Which is, again, strange.

Maybe the kid’s got good hearing.

Either way, Shaw rolls her eyes before speeding through the room and removing half of the toys on the kid's pillow, so that it sleeps.

(And shuts up.)

She's not a babysitter, and she's definitely not about to tuck the baby in, so it better be appreciated that she did half the actual cleaning job.

.

God, does this toddler have issues.

A foot away from the shape sorter and she's still going for the barrel rolls around the carpet. And that idiot of a mother is just smiling.

How about teach your daughter how to do the basics?

No, obviously that doesn't ring any bells.

.

What does she even care?

(She doesn’t.)

But it certainly freaks her out when Samantha proceeds to crawl over all the shadows that Shaw happens to be standing in.

X – ray vision?

(Great, now Fusco's comic stories are rubbing off on her.)

.

No seriously though, she has to physically step away because sometimes the baby gets too close.

Issues.

Just issues.

.

III.

A year and a half and the baby just had her first major injury. She tried to walk over a stack of books on the floor, alone.

She hasn't even learned how to stand yet.

And where the fuck is that mother?

.

Nowhere near.

Shaw sighs, and grumbles as she cleans the baby's cut while it's asleep. 

What did she ever do to deserve this?

(This is definitely not the kind of action she sought.)

.

3rd of June, and today it’s Larry’s birthday, whoever the fuck that is. Shaw’s counted about sixteen times the mother left the kid alone home.

Well, not really, no, since Shaw is always here cleaning the mess up – but Georgia is not aware of that.

It’s almost 7 in the evening and Sameen has just entered the room from the window across the crib. There’s really absolutely nothing to do in Bishop, and she's just so bored.

She could almost say Harold’s chess sessions were more interesting than wandering around on the roads of what has to be one of the most tiny cities in the whole wide world.

Annoying people and gossiping. Her worst nightmare.

Georgia has left to go – well somewhere.

At least she bothered to feed the baby. Who is currently hanging from the side of her crib in an attempt to land her small feet on the ground.

In other words, thank God Shaw exists.

She speeds through the room in no time, tank top clinging to her frame and gently but forcefully pulls the kid away. Maybe it’s a bit less graceful, the manner in which she proceeds to let the baby fall on its ass to avoid being seen.

Great.

There's a slight boom as bone meets tile, and Shaw closes her eyes tight at the thought of having to deal with a toddler mercilessly wailing.

But seconds pass and there's nothing, no sound and Sameen opens one eye to peek as if she’s scared to face what is to come.

(She's not afraid of a baby of course, shut up.)

There's a peaceful smile on Sam’s face as she places her palms next to her hips and pushes her feet in an attempt to get up. 

Begrudgingly, Shaw opens both eyes and stares, contemplating whether or not Guarding entails baby sitting.

Samantha falls face first in the ground, and Shaw rolls her eyes as the answer to that question tries to disentangle its legs from one another.

Just fucking great.

“Hey,” she more hisses than says, and the baby stops of sorts to follow the sound of her voice.

Shaw clears her throat and kneels.

She might be invisible but her voice is still audible and if that won't be enough – well then that's the baby’s problem.

The kid however, seems to lose track fast and begins walking towards the crib's very wooden, very not soft leg.

Shaw does the one hundredth eye roll of the day. “Sam.” She states more forcefully and Samantha loses her balance slightly as she turns her head towards the source of the voice.

“That's right, come here.” Shaw tries for the baby voice, she really does but in the end it sounds more like she’s choking than actually talking.

Whatever, she doesn't care.

But hereby stands a problematic kid – it seems to work.

Samantha takes tiny, uncertain steps and Shaw keeps whispering stuff to keep her on the right path.

But Samantha reaches her fast and – shit she hasn’t thought that far.

If the baby touches her she’s gonna become visible and that is something she does not wanna put to the test – 

And holy fuck the toddler is fast approaching and Shaw scowls because she never signed up for this. She steadily drags herself back as the baby draws closer, chuckling, and she narrows her eyes because screw Fusco and his comic books – this girl has X – ray vision damn it.

The baby giggles and Sameen’s back hits the wall but all Shaw can see is a tiny thing ready to fall right on her knees, and –

She surges forward to catch the kid before impact for some unknown reason, feeling her own hands come to hold her firmly despite the laughs and gurgling sounds Samantha produces.

She feels warm and it all overwhelms her, flashes of her past reeling in front of her eyes and sparks flying along her marks. Her veins pulse and her mouth dries as Samantha crumbles the side of her tank top and rests her head over her heart.

(This cannot be happening.)

Shaw drops the baby in the crib as if she’s burnt.

She leaves.

(Thinks it should be easier to breath outside but only gets more unsettled when it isn’t.)

The way her body shivers where the baby’s head was just seconds ago is inexplicable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a myth about Angels meeting their soulmates in humans. And there's this myth about a woman, an Angel who could not feel, so when she first touched (really touched) her soulmate, she could not handle the emotions and so she asked to become a Demon, asked God to let her be Bad. Demons do not feel. She later on finds out that the boy lived only to be hers, and now that she's destined to never feel, he is dying. 
> 
> I felt like although this has nothing to do with it, the actual story deserves a shout out. Not sure what the name is but I'm pretty sure if you Google it you'll find it. I didn't really spoil anything trust me, and it is pure poetry.
> 
> Anyways thanks for reading!


	3. the wrong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I'm doing this.” Root states matter – of – factly. She pauses over the keyboard and closes her eyes, waiting for impact, before she adds, solemnly, “If you want to throw judge upon me or whatever, now would be the time.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait everyone.  
> This story really is a pain.

When she’s eight years old, Sam meets Hanna.

When she’s eight years old, Sam meets Hanna and all the pain and tiredness she carries from home suddenly feels a lot more lighter. Hanna is a tall, brunette, happy girl whose smile lights up a whole room and eyes shine with excitement.

Sam does not fall right into it, not really, but she’d be lying if she were to say she’s not intrigued. There’s a girl that doesn’t seem to mind Sam’s strange isolation urges, and that’s too good to be true.

There’s a girl that laughs at one of her stupid jokes, (the one she totally stole from their elementary teacher) and Samantha Groves feels something tightening deep inside her that she’s too young to explain.

.

Of course, her mother has to spoil that incredible mood she’d managed to build the whole day by not coming to pick her up from school.

She sighs as she throws her black backpack over her shoulder and moves toward the path that leads to her house. This makes seven times now that her mother hasn’t arrived on time.

Samantha ignores the people surrounding her, cars and children running to hug their parents as they finish school. It’s not like she’s jealous anyway, her mother can very well be another one of Bishop’s gossiping, tea party ladies but Sam is glad she’s not.

She wonders if Hanna feels the same way. Filing the question away for tomorrow, she stands in front of her house minutes later, and contemplates whether she should go in.

(Not like she has a choice.)

.

“Oh,” she whispers during a very cold evening, looking up from her book for a second. “Hi.”

There’s a way in which the shadows of her room change, particular, subtle but Sam likes to think she’s talented at observing. The one next to her window, close to her wooden bed, is dark, deep but sort of not there. There’s no sun at this time that could ever produce such a penumbra. 

Wondering if her mysterious shadow friend will ever decide that it’s futile to hide, she finally sighs dejectedly when the darkness disappears.

“I know you’re there.”

There’s only silence but it’s nothing Samantha Groves is not used to.

.

At five years old, her birthday, Sam experiences what anger means, exactly. It’s one of those days that her Mom decorates the whole house with big posters and balloons reading Happy Birthday in many colorful letters. 

Sam doesn’t feel any happier than she was without the exaggerations, but somehow, she realizes, her Mom expects her to be. For Samantha, it's enough that the woman she adores is about to celebrate with her.

She’s seen empty bottles littered around the floor multiple times, although she's to young herself to understand why they're there, or what their purpose is.

(She remembers once, she steps on one and stumbles, her ankle twisting painfully and the bottle rolling close to the wall in the shadows. She recalls her mother hurriedly picking her up and doing things to her feet that hurt rather than helped, and Georgia Groves mumbling under her breath about what a stupid baby Sam was.

She also remembers that the bottle was missing when her mother carried her back to her crib, along with some others that she’d spotted before on the way.)

It’s noon, with sun, strangely, filtering their small living room with light, in different shapes and sizes. Her Mom is making the cake and at around evening as always, they will put cheery songs on the radio and play hide and seek and celebrate.

Whilst her mother is in the kitchen, Sam sits and plays with her dolls, even though she’s not really fond of them. Her mother seems to want her to be friends with them. But Sam already has a friend. 

She giggles as an idea occurs to her and runs to her room. The lighting here is less, shadows covering half of the expanse and Sam hesitates as she steps through the doorway. She’s heaving, breaths coming short from her running, but now that she stands in front of the deep brown, furry carpet, she wonders if she should maybe go back to petting blonde miniature people.

But Samantha is not one to be scared. Besides, the Shadow is her friend.

“Hi,” she whispers with a foot slightly in a dark place. “Are you here?”

But the shadows don’t move this time. There is no shape changing or light changing. She asks again, a bit more loudly but is distressed to find out that there’s probably no one there. 

Sam hangs her head and sighs, wondering why her friend won’t appear. Maybe she is stupid after all.

She walks out the room and when she returns to the dolls' resting place, her Mom is standing there gathering it up.

“Are we ready?” Sam asks eagerly, easily forgetting her earlier frustration.

Her mother isn’t replying. Actually, now Sam notices, she’s picking the mini clothes and dolls up rather forcefully.

Samantha walks closer and asks again. She’s tense and nothing like she usually is when they’re about to play Christmas songs. Her posture is straightened but her movements are slow somehow, like she’s pushing herself to do something she doesn’t want to do. (Like when Sam has to eat, maybe.)

She thinks maybe she should help, but she hesitates when her mother looks at her with cold, hard, glassy eyes.

Sam, ever so innocent, doesn’t heed the warning. “Momm – ”

“Could you shut up for a second?!” 

Samantha freezes, rooted to the spot, eyes wide like saucers. She feels her chest tighten at the unfamiliar tone, and her eyes glaze over when she hears her mother talk about being slow, and stupid.

But she’s too young. Too, too young.

“Mom,” she starts but her mother throws the doll a good few steps away from her and Sam flinches, feeling like she might suddenly cry and she doesn’t even know the reason.

(Absently, she catches sight of a shadow forming where there was none to her left.)

“Shut up for fuck's sake.”

This is new. This is so new, Sam has never heard of these words and she doesn’t know what to make of them. What did she do wrong? Did her mother see her speak in the shadows? 

Does her mother think she’s not okay?

Sam senses tears wet her cheeks and doesn’t stop them. Georgia Groves suddenly growls before she spins around, the door leading outside banging on her way out.

At five years old, her birthday, Sam experiences what anger means, exactly.

.

Hanna dies.

Sam is twelve.

She stays.

Her name is Root.

.

She’s fourteen, the first time she eyes the bourbon standing proud in the cabinet over the fridge, and her mind sticks. Her mother is nowhere to be found and Root knows better by now than to go out and look for her.

She wonders if it’s wrong, how her first thought is to grab it and pour it down her throat instead of the sink. Of course it is. Her mother told her once that if she ever did drink, it better had been the end of the world.

Root snorts at herself as she sits on her chair and contemplates the math in front of her.

Every day is the end of the world now. It’s the end of the world even as she tugs the pencil down and her hand forms the missing number to the equation.

And as she clenches her jaw, slams the pencil down and rises to reach for the glass bottle, she thinks, it's okay that it’s wrong.

It’s in her blood.

.

The funny part is, that Root never comes within a mile's distance from the library anymore. And it’s funny because she should, since the only thing even remotely close to interesting in this town happens to be in there.

When she was six, her mother hit her for the first time. Hard, with her cheek reddening wildly.

There’s nothing left there, now. Her cheek is pale, her mom is passed out on the couch back home, and Root sees cars stop by although the street is empty.

There’s nothing left of the slap, now, but Hanna is gone, and Root’s soul is sort of missing although nothing ever reddened but her eyes as she cried.

.

The fourth time she uncaps the lid of some beer bottle she spotted by her mother’s bed, a shadow settles over by her desk, and Root is so surprised half of the drink ends up on cool floor tiles.

It’s spring, and Root is reading a book she’s read a hundred times before, alone, seated by the window with tears brimming in her eyes.

“What?” She finally asks when there’s no movement and the strange penumbra looks almost as if condescending.

She stares down the void challengingly, willing whoever or whatever it is that’s been flying in and out of her life to come out and stop her.

She looks away after a while, bottom lip trembling.

“Thought so,” she mumbles against the alcohol she wishes could wash her soul.

.

She’s seven years old.

There are loud screams and sounds she’s too young to identify echoing around the house and Sam screws her eyes shut and puts her palms over her ears but it doesn’t help.

The covers are warm on top of her, the pillow is soft and her heart races so fast she doubts it won’t leave her chest.

It’s been half an hour and the banging noise only grows louder and louder.

Sam feels water gather behind her eyelids and she shivers, thinking of how her mama will be less than pleased if she makes her presence known. A whimper escapes her as a particularly loud scream cuts through the air and she instinctively folds in on herself, trying to keep the panic at bay.

It doesn’t work. 

She senses a sob heaving out of her chest and she immediately pushes the blanket up and over her head, trying to shield herself from the world.

Her mother is a good woman. Her Mama loves her. Her mother will protect her.

A male voice surfaces and Samantha shakes her head, cheeks wet and breath hitching.

She’s so scared. So, so scared. She’s –

Silence.

There is nothing but the sound of her own ragged breathing suddenly, and it’s almost horrifying, the moment she realizes someone is behind her.

Tim, perhaps. Has the bad man found her? Is her mother okay? Has –

“Sleep.” The voice is so low, foreign but warm and Sam flinches. She can’t hear anything but her breaths. 

“It's okay,” the person whispers, and for some unexplainable reason Sam feels her muscles relax of their own accord, “just sleep.”

Samantha sleeps with the feeling of a rough material pressed against her back. It’s warm and not entirely unpleasant.

.

“I'm doing this.” Root states matter – of – factly. She pauses over the keyboard and closes her eyes, waiting for impact, before she adds, solemnly, “If you want to throw judge upon me or whatever, now would be the time.”

Silence. Wind is ruffling up the autumn leaves by the cemetery and it’s cold where Root sits against her mother’s grave, a weird portable computer comfortably placed on her thighs.

Last night she took a look at the mirror and realized that it’s not her fault. That she was born like this – bad code. There are no regrets for what she’s willing and ready to do, for what she’s done.

Her mother was bad code but she tried. Hanna was pure and although she had nothing to try for she wound up dead.

Root will live her life the way she was built, until she dies herself.

There is no response and truthfully, Root didn’t expect one. Perhaps the strange darkness abandoned her a long time ago.

She would have abandoned herself, she believes, as she presses down ‘Enter’ and looks around one last time before she gets in the car and drives far, far away.


	4. the change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _She approaches, slowly, lowers the hoodie of her cloak. Silence cracks at the seams, Root’s tears streaming soundlessly down the length of her delicate face._
> 
> _“Then it's time to go.”_
> 
> _She doesn’t appear, doesn’t make herself visible because there’s remorse in Root that earns God’s forgiveness, but she’ll have to do a lot more than that to cure Shaw’s wrath._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to split this so it wouldn't too long.  
> Apparently my stories have a thing for heading towards 5 chapters.

It’s dawn and rain falls heavily down on the four of them as the Li River extends far and away ahead of them, gone into the unknown. Clouds are gathered over them but time has frozen, ever so lightly, as the wooden boat floats on calm waters and slowly disappears into the horizon.

Sameen’s jaw sets and tightens, hands tucked deep under her cloak's cover, nails digging deep. From the corner of her eye she catches the tear that travels down John’s face, but nothing could ever bring her back, now.

Joss’s perfume is still lingering, vivid and lively even in death. Shaw thinks it’s futile, that Harold places a hand on John’s shoulder as if that might anchor him back to the now, to reality. John’s gone, too. His body might be here, but she’s certain of it, his soul is in that boat, lying next to Divine Justice.

Jocelyn is with Them, now.

Shaw’s head aches with the thought of being away, with the thought of never being there to help. It’s guilt that eats away at her, but she’s never been one for emotions. Anger, perhaps. Ah, yes there’s plenty of that to go on right now.

Angry at Harold, angry at Them, angry at herself.

Joss died in a war Sameen should have taken part in. Instead of being there to guard the gates, Sameen was down here.

Jocelyn Carter, Divine Justice, died fighting unprotected whilst Shaw was down here protecting a Foreigner.

Protecting a Foreigner.

She’s sick to the stomach.

.

Joss wanted to die peacefully on Earth. She wanted to be amongst them. She wanted to be amongst the humans she had always been fighting for.

Shaw doesn’t comprehend the sentiment, but she gets where it stems from.

It doesn’t make her feel any better.

.

“You’re going back.”

It’s not common, to stand outside the Shelters when the skies are raging above, but the cold seeps through her skin, and it feels like the world is grieving for all the ways Shaw can’t.

She scoffs, as Harold’s voice cuts through like lightning, because here she stands and here he stands, and they both know there is no way Shaw leaves again.

There is no reason after all.

“We're in war,” Shaw begins, pauses to inhale as the wind tousles her hair, and completes, “you need me here.”

Even if she can’t see him, Shaw senses his slow steps towards her, hears the wood crack underneath his weight and sighs just before he settles, tiredly, next to her on the old but sturdy porch.

“Sameen,” he says and Shaw flinches. “She needs you.”

Hands forming fists, she turns to face him. “You should have called for me.” There’s so much anger, so much emotion in her voice, because Joss – 

Joss was a good woman damn it. She cared, she protected, she – she told Shaw goodbye, and Shaw should have listened, should have heard, should have been there, alongside John, fighting Demons. Not taking care of a teenager that has now ended up in a tailspin of evil.

She’s a Foreigner, clearly. She belongs in the Underground, why can’t he see?

“I would have come.”

Harold tilts his head, lips tugged down and an almost sympathetic glint that only manages to grate on her nerves in his eyes.

“That’s exactly why I didn’t, Ms. Shaw.”

.

She never tells them about that one time. She never talks about that one time that Samantha Groves touched her and Shaw’s world shifted.

So it unnerves her, when Harold’s eyes look knowing somehow, anyway.

.

“She wanted me to tell you something.”

Shaw tenses, a second long before she continues sharpening the blade.

“I'm listening.”

It’s not silent, not with the monks doing their prayer next room, but John’s strained voice still makes it to her, audible enough.

“She says –”

Shaw halts breathing, for a while, feeling unease and intruding in a moment that should be only John’s, as his words tremble, voice hitching, just barely.

“She said it’s okay.”

Shaw cuts herself when she presses the stone down on the edge too hard.

.

Samantha calls out to her, lots of times. The girl refers to her as the Shadow, or as a vast being, that she’s figured out exists. Shaw never replies. She stands, close but not too close, waits until she has to snap and uncoil and attack.

Georgia hits her, once. Shaw makes her drink herself to a stupor, watches cunningly as her night is spent atop the toilet.

But, Root. Root never calls, not once.

(Root smirks, smiles, evolves into something that Shaw could never understand why They would want protected.)

.

When Root makes her first, essentially, well, kill, at the cemetery, John is there, next to her.

There’s three feet distance between them but she already knows what he’ll say.

Humans must make their own choices.

.

Root travels, a lot. Carries a gun, too.

Shaw attempts to get rid of it multiple times, but it turns out the kid is smarter than she expected. 

Root is not the little Sam that strolled around the carpet. Root is a grown woman who has nothing to lose and if Shaw knows something, it’s that this kind is the worst of them.

.

She knows something's wrong when all of a sudden, outside the window of Root’s latest version of an apartment, a familiar but completely unwelcome face appears.

Jeremy Lambert isn’t frowning, but he’s not smiling either when she pulls out her sword and prepares for a fight. It’s dark out and his red eyes shine bright, but not even their intensity can dim the sight of his hand pulling out a white scarf out of his coat’s pocket.

Shaw’s blood boils, recognizes the item and yearns to slash at Jeremy’s head, but he’s not advancing on her.

When he almost gently ties the scarf around the lamppost next to him, Shaw winces, feels her bones go cold and gets this for what it is.

There’s a funeral to attend.

.

Samantha cried for Hanna, again and again.

Shaw used to wish she could teach the kids how to not care, how to not be affected, but emotionlessness is not a skill.

Now, looking back, Shaw thinks that even if it was, Root didn’t deserve to have it.

.

“You want me here, don’t you?”

Her cloak is moving maniacally against her frame, ceaseless winds whipping at her face as she looks up from the monastery, towards the endless sky.

Her fate, Shaw realizes. God wants to decide her fate without her input.

They come first, plays in her head over and over again. 

She's important. Root’s a killer, a Foreigner, yet she’s somehow important to a greater plan that Shaw has never heard of.

It's her purpose and her life that They’re asking her to give up. Fight the war from the sidelines, by protecting her.

“They’ll die,” Shaw growls, angry, and uncaring of the fact that it’s God that she’s mad at. “Harold, John, all of them.” She clenches her fists. “They'll all die.”

But even as she speaks, she feels the truth burning holes deep in her core.

In the end, this was always what it was supposed to come to.

.

Shaw has only been visible and solid for her Protégée, once.

She was 7, and her mother didn’t think of closing doors even though her screams would undoubtedly reach the kid's ears nonetheless.

It stirred strange feelings, inside her, watching Samantha so crumbled and trying, trying to keep silent and stay out of something she should have never been going through anyway.

So although all her instincts scream no, her body easily slips in behind the little girl’s and ignoring the sparks in her bloodstream when her chest contacts the thin cotton of Sam’s pajama, she orders her to sleep.

Doesn’t touch her but in the spot her tank top meets the shirt.

.

“I want out,” Root states one day, and Shaw is so surprised her head snaps almost painfully to the woman’s direction.

Root is wearing a baggy sweater, a cup of coffee in her hands as she stares out the large windows of her latest conquest. At least she uses the money she earns from the contracts in style.

Shaw knows this. Wants to stay silent but realizes it’s time. It’s all in motion isn’t it?

“Do you?” She asks, and pretends she doesn’t notice the way Root’s shoulders tense and her eyes widen, bottom lip trembling like it did back then so many other times in Bishop.

Root doesn’t search for the source of the voice but she nods, repeatedly. There’s water in her eyes.

Shaw rises.

She approaches, slowly, lowers the hoodie of her cloak. Silence cracks at the seams, Root’s tears streaming soundlessly down the length of her delicate face.

“Then it's time to go.”

She doesn’t appear, doesn’t make herself visible because there’s remorse in Root that earns God’s forgiveness, but she’ll have to do a lot more than that to cure Shaw’s wrath.

.

Shaw leaves China on a lazy Saturday, with a letter in the cloak’s pocket and Harold’s farewell.

Shaw leaves China with intent to come back not alone, but to a destination surely to be devoid of any Angel or Wise One.

.

It’s cruel and she knows They wouldn’t approve of how she purposefully leaves Root deal with the hardship it is to change environment, alone, with no one to care for her.

She doesn’t even talk to her, save for sparse sentences that include ticket information and traveling instructions.

Root proves to be an excellent manipulator, talking people into doing her favors and letting her enter trains and planes and into their lives. She proves to be quite smart and resourceful, an edge of sharpness to her that Shaw finds herself sometimes begrudgingly admiring.

However, it’s in moments like these, when they’re all alone in a dingy hotel for the night that Shaw sees a young woman in her late twenties struggling to identify instead of an ex – independent contractor doing whatever they please.

She’s no fool as to even consider that there’s a semblance of Samantha in Root – that innocence is long gone.

But Root carries shadows and darkness and ghosts with her, Hanna’s, her mother’s and her old self’s.

“Does it hurt?” Shaw asks one day, stony expression in place as she sits on a chair by the bed.

Root is wearing Nemo's pajamas under the sheets and Shaw thinks she shouldn’t. It’s too childish.

Root closes her eyes and although her face screams pain, her lips form a casual, crazy kind of smile that Shaw knows all too well.

“Yes,” she whispers, voice breaking at the corners.

Silence.

“Good.” Shaw says, and thinks they’re finally making some progress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, to anyone who's sticking with this. Kudos are appreciated and I always love replying to comments and seeing your opinions, so drop one, if you will :-P.


	5. the not - so - end

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _There’s a second and a half for her to render Root’s finger tracing down her arm and after that all she’s got is fireworks. There are about a hundred and more images passing by in front of her eyes, images of herself and her father, her mother, John, Harold, Joss, Bear, Valhalla, China, the scarf, the world._
> 
> _Shaw shivers and pulls away as if struck by lightning._
> 
> _Which only results in her falling off the side of the bed._
> 
> _Nope, no surrealism. Just reality. God really must like mocking her._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TA DA!!!  
> So, I didnt want to delve into sexy times much, because that was not what the story is about, but, I also couldn't help myself soo... Enjoy the finale.
> 
> P.S : While I'm working on a Medieval Times fic, who's ready for an 80s fic? ;-)

By the time the Eiffel Tower has switched its majestic lights on, Root has already gone to bed. Under the covers, silky and golden, an image the whole hotel tries to promote, she looks so small, frail and vulnerable. 

Samantha dances around them both, taunting, and Shaw’s not sure of who it’s taken more of a toll on.

Standing at the balcony, Shaw ignores the cold and steals quick glances of Root from the reflection by one of the open glass doors. There’s no snow, in France, but she doesn’t need it to keep track of time. The French sing and shout about Christmas, and Shaw’s head spins along with the rhythm, unprepared.

December’s fast approaching and she’s not sure she’s ready for that, either.

.

“Do you remember?” 

Root’s quite the talker. Apparently, Shaw made a huge mistake confirming her existence, because now all Root does is talk – when it’s dark, and Shaw suspects it’s because if there’s no light she can hide more easily.

There are flowers by the side of the road, underneath specks of snow. The sidewalks are glistening from ice, and Bayern is freezing.

Shaw contemplates for a little, and then, indulges with a sigh, “remember what?”

“What’s coming up next week?”

Shaw stalls. Clenches her jaw and flexes her hands.

“Yes.”

Root must detect a hint of anger in her voice because she doesn’t speak for the rest of the way.

.

Somewhere along the train from Germany to Poland, Shaw starts noticing things.

Like the way Root smiles faintly when she looks at something vastly familiar outside the windows, or how she pushes the winter grapes and bananas aside from the fruit bowl to grasp the apple.

Perhaps the manner in which Root snores slightly when she sleeps, mouth opening slightly and all the pieces of black nail polish slowly chipping off her nails.

The moments she struggles internally because she comes face to face with the exceptions to her bad code rule, that only seem to increase. Her eyes narrowing in confusion when a Russian old woman beams at her, wrinkly and slow, and her mouth ticking upwards when a kid offers her a lollipop from the cabin next door.

The fugitives taking shelter in between the wagons that invite her one day to sit down with them.

Root’s changing, Shaw realizes, and maybe it scares her a bit, how she knows she’s the only one who is supposed to notice. 

(How she understands, now, that she was there to help Samantha complete herself only to see her grow into a Root that would later complete Sameen.)

.

“Are your friends there?”

Shaw halts, minutely, pausing in front of the desk placed conveniently across from the bed. Hotels keep getting cheesier and cheesier.

“Where?”

“There.” Root says and somehow manages to stand right next to Shaw without even knowing where she was in the first place.

Seconds tick by and Shaw moves, trying to swallow down the anger threatening to pour out.

Root doesn’t push.

.

“No.” She answers much, much later, when it’s dark and thinks that maybe it benefits her too, that no one can decipher her expression without light.

Root doesn’t seem to mind.

.

Root confuses her. Root makes her stomach churn in ways different than food and sometimes her blood feels like it might explode through her vessels.

Terrified, she realizes, she actually wants to stretch her finger out, touch Root’s hair while she’s sleeping.

Terrified, she’s ashamed to admit, Root starts to smell like home.

.

“What kind of stupid perfume is that anyway?”

She’ll regret this, later, because this is the first time Shaw has initiated conversation and honestly, what the hell is she thinking?

Root’s eyebrows shoot up to meet her hairline, eyes taunting but surprised, and mouth slightly smirking.

“Coconut?”

Shaw scowls although Root can’t see, and proceeds to grunt in disgust. (Kind of faux – disgust, because damn that’s some perfume.)

Root laughs from where she’s sitting on the bench, phone in hand, (what a nerd), and Shaw frowns, feeling as if being laughed at.

Oh how Root would sober up if Shaw pulled her sword out and –

“Turn that frown upside down, sweetie,” Root teases. “You know you love it.”

She’s not certain if she should be more offended from the nickname, surprised by Root’s deduction skills, or flustered because of her voice's timbre.

.

“Shaw.”

“Excuse me?”

Shaw groans. “My name. It’s Shaw.”

Root’s eyes gleam like a cat’s even in the night. 

“Ooh, is it bonding time?”

Shaw purses her lips and tries not to cut Root’s head off.

“Don’t use that ridiculous nickname on me again if you want your ass intact.”

“Promises. Promises.”

What did she get herself into?

.

“I used to think I was crazy.”

Shaw ignores her.

“That there were no strange shadows, besides my own imagination.” Root states. Stops and looks down. “But you were always there weren’t you?”

Shaw inhales and continues to sleep on the already uncomfortable chair.

“Shaw?”

“If I say yes, will you shut up already?”

Root snorts and stays silent.

“Thank you,” she whispers later and Shaw pretends her heart doesn’t jump at the sound.

.

“So you control people’s minds.”

Shaw bangs her head against the train’s window and groans, pained. Root has a knack for misinterpreting everything she says and twisting into some false, completely unjustified sentence that has nothing to do with Shaw’s initial words.

“Is that all you got from this conversation?” She asks, eyes catching a glimpse of green amongst white as they speed towards Russia.

Time passes by fast and the notion that they’re already late for their arrival in China sticks under her skin uncomfortably.

“No,” Root says slowly, voice taking up a tone altogether familiarly disconcerting. “You’re my Guardian Angel.”

Shaw’s head snaps towards Root as quick as lightning, a strange rage filling her lungs until she can’t breathe.

“No,” Shaw grits out, voice strained and anger barely contained. “Don’t say that. I’m not an Angel. And I’m sure as hell not yours.”

She knows it comes out harsh, recognizes a bit too late the particularly unwelcome downtick of Root’s lips, masked skillfully by faux – coy eyes.

“Okay then, grumpy pants,” she goes for teasing, but Shaw sees right through the lilt of her voice, straight into the way her eyes hold confusion and hurt.

Root gets up after a minute with the feeble excuse of needing the toilet, but Shaw perceives it for what it truly is.

An escape.

.

It’s almost midnight, and the train bumps around along with the shape of the tracks, leaving Shaw’s insides turning upside down in a painful way that only serves to make her even more frustrated. Root hasn’t talked at all since the ‘incident’ and Shaw doesn’t know why she even cares.

She has half the mind to jump off the train and trek her way to China by herself. Protégée be damned.

Only, she finds that when her mind picks up on that particular trail of thought, her mind freezes and her feet turn to lead.

So here she is, middle of the night, staring at Root’s languid form resting on the bed, brain running through all the reasons why she shouldn’t be here and all those why she should.

It’s two minutes prior to the 5th of December and Shaw’s heart beats louder than the sound of the train moving.

She glances at the clock by the cabin's door and inhales deeply, air filling her lungs, and when she starts getting dizzy, she lets it all out, doubts included.

She undresses.

One by one, her combat boots, and then slowly, more deliberately rids herself of the cashmere cloak. Her feet are cold as they touch the train’s cool tiles, but she’s warm enough not to mind. The tank top follows next, and Sameen shivers as the chilly air hits her bare chest. Finally, she removes her boxer briefs, and allows her marks to breathe in all their nudity.

Hesitantly, and carefully, she trudges towards the bed. Shaw would think this moment would be more surreal, like blinding light emanating from her skin or some sort of thunder splitting through the sky as she settles over the covers and Root turns, stirring awake.

Instead all she gets is eyes staring at her wide like saucers and a trace of sleep induced drool making its way down Root’s chin.

She kind of wants to laugh.

See? This is just stupid. They’re not bonded. There’s no humongous and magnific –

Shaw’s mind draws blanks.

There’s a second and a half for her to render Root’s finger tracing down her arm and after that all she’s got is fireworks. There are about a hundred and more images passing by in front of her eyes, images of herself and her father, her mother, John, Harold, Joss, Bear, Valhalla, China, the scarf, the world.

Shaw shivers and pulls away as if struck by lightning.

Which only results in her falling off the side of the bed.

Nope, no surrealism. Just reality. God really must like mocking her.

“Sa – Sameen?!” Root’s voice comes urgent from over her head as Shaw groans in slight pain.

And then – “What did you just say?”

Shaw's head pops up over the side of the bed just as Root leans over to look under and their heads bump together. Shaw grunts in frustration at Root’s laughter and although her chest suddenly feels a lot lighter at the sound, she thinks she might spontaneously combust.

Why did she ever think this was a good idea?

“I… wow,” Root mutters when she’s done laughing. “Is that, is that really you?”

Shaw rolls her eyes, annoyed to no end. “No, it’s Santa.”

Root’s lips form a smirk.

“How the hell do you know my name?”

Root frowns, almost as if contemplating that herself. “I heard?”

Shaw’s eyes narrow, but then she realizes that doesn’t sound so unlikely, considering how Shaw just literally saw her life flash before her eyes.

“You’re kind of beautiful, by the way.” Root states, eyes straying down Shaw’s form splayed on the ground and Sameen suddenly feels self – conscious.

“Hey,” Shaw glares at her. “Eyes up.”

“Is this my birthday present? You naked?”

“Shut up.”

Shaw gets up quickly and gets under the covers.

“Your tattoos are beautiful, too.”

“Marks.”

“Oh like magic runes?”

“Root,” Shaw turns to her, eyes firm and expression neutral as always. “Shut up.”

“Are you always this colorful? Because you could us – ”

Shaw springs towards her and effectively places her hand over Root’s mouth.

“Don’t make me regret this.” She whispers.

When she lets go, Root's as dazed as the freaking stars.

.

Root slowly adjusts to her presence. Very slowly, snail like kind of rhythm, but she does. Eventually she manages to hide the awed looks towards Shaw when she thinks she’s not watching, or the slight shivers when Shaw’s hands brush against hers.

She eyes the sword cautiously, always teasing but knowing when to stop. Sometimes, Shaw feels overwhelmed by the stares sent her way, the manner in which Root's eyes scroll down her face again and again, trying to break her walls down to pieces.

She doesn’t ask much besides the basics, and finds out soon enough about Shaw’s world.

By the time they get to China, Root probably knows more about Shaw than she knows about herself.

.

“There was a woman,” Root says, mere hours before they reach the monastery. “When I touched you, there was a black woman.”

Shaw tenses, but doesn’t stop ravaging through one of the backpacks to find the granola bar she was sure she placed in there.

Root scrutinizes her. “Something happened to her.”

Shaw's hand grasps the item, pulls it out of the bag and she can feel the bar cracking under her fingertips when she turns around, stoic and emotionless as ever. 

“She's dead.”

Root’s eyes show surprise but nothing else, her demeanor unchanging against the station’s dim lights.

“Because of me?” She asks, and she looks a bit smaller to Shaw when she fleetingly looks down.

Shaw steps forward after a second’s consideration, staring up at Root, fronts almost touching. “No.” She states firmly, because she understands now it’s true.

It’s okay, Carter had said.

After all, who is she to question Divine Justice?

.

It happens suddenly, very unexpectedly but she should have known really.

She should have known it was inevitable.

Root’s mere existence sends Shaw’s internals up in flames, finding herself unable to connect the image of this strong, independent young woman with the baby that used to fall off the crib years ago.

Even the monks comprehend, perception skills intact and they watch from afar, carefully as one of Valhalla’s most prideful Guardians, one that has always had struggles in feeling anything short of anger for that matter, is rendered utterly and completely incapable of resisting this human.

His name is Tao and he’s not the least bit phased when she glares at him impassively after he boldly implied that it’s time the two of them got their own, single bedded room. (He even had the fucking audacity to smirk knowingly.)

Shaw is struggling, lines of what should be and what is desired to be done blurring even more with every glance Root’s warm eyes shoot her way.

Though, maybe that is fate too.

.

“Where are you going?” Root asks against the howling of the wind outside the safety of their room.

Shaw pauses, cloak brushed on her shoulders and her shiny, long sword tucked in its holster by her waist. 

“Training,” she says testily, slightly annoyed at herself for hesitating to leave Root alone.

“Can I come?”

“No.”

Root does the pout she usually tries to pull off, but since it never works Shaw doesn’t get why Root keeps doing it.

“Just – ” she stops, looking at her sternly. “Stay here. Don’t drive the monks crazy.”

“Aye, aye, captain.”

Shaw ignores Root’s deadpan voice as she goes, although it makes her roll her eyes so hard they might get stuck.

.

“Sure looks like you’ve got some nerves to work out there, Shaw.”

Shaw barely manages to keep the sword from swinging at Zoe’s head, thinking that it wouldn’t be much appreciated by Them if she not – so – accidentally murdered the prophet.

She opts for ignoring her instead. There couldn’t be many reasons for Morgan to be here, but Sameen’s got twenty on herself that it’s all about a certain death. She’s a bit late to the party if she’s here to pay her respects.

“She’s cute.” Shaw tenses, her next jab at the imaginary enemy aimed a bit higher than she would have liked. She flexes her fingers on the hilt of the sword, bends her knees to get better force and pushes her elbow behind, delivering a good swing at the air on her back.

Shaw breathes, inhaling and exhaling deeply, paying no mind to the sweat making its way down her eyebrow slowly, a bit ticklish.

“Joss is dead,” she grits out, chest heaving from all the exercise. “And that’s all you got to say to me?”

“People die. It’s the natural order of things.”

“Please,” Shaw says mockingly, dropping the sword to a nearby bench and proceeding to remove the protective tape off of her knuckles. “Carter wasn’t people, she was Divine Justice.”

Zoe tilts her head. “It’s not your fault, Shaw.”

Shaw forcefully throws the gauge to the ground. “Why does everyone immediately assume that I feel responsible for that?”

“Because it’s obvious?” Zoe remarks deadpan.

“Are you here to make me throw your ass in the holy river, prophet?”

“Root, is important, you know.”

“If you give me the talk, Zoe, I swear to God – ”

“They’re blank, you know.” Zoe states, somehow serious although the smirk on her face remains intact. “Their future, I can’t see.”

Shaw snaps her eyes up. “Harold’s?”

“And John’s,” she says, eyes cast on her nails as if they’re discussing about the weather.

“So it’s not defined?” Shaw asks, because that would mean that there’s still a chance they make it out alive from the impending doom.

Zoe laughs. “Aren’t you going to ask me what you're dying to know?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Shaw states firmly as she holsters the sword and prepares to leave.

“Sure you don’t,” Zoe mutters, her voice carrying to Shaw’s ears from a little help by the wind.

Shaw stops, face hardened. “I don’t care,” she says suddenly, cold voice piercing through the tension.

Zoe laughs from behind her and Shaw turns to glare.

“Yes you do,” she mumbles, voice taking on a soft gravelly voice that makes Sam want to grab the sword and slide it straight through her. “You just haven’t figured it out yet.”

.

There’s thunder, loud and intimidating, staining the atmosphere when Shaw enters the room, all the monks gathered around the corners and the tiles beneath her are hard.

Momentarily closing her eyes, she tries to calculate how much time has passed since she left the dorm. It’s their last prayer now so that would mean she's been out for at least two hours.

Shaw moves forward silently, not wanting to interrupt the monks' ritual. The door to the left at the other side of the hall is open, leading her straight to the dormitory.

The monks have been no less than reluctantly showing their hospitality, seeing as through the room is comfortable but not luxurious like the rest of them. Root didn’t mind at all, having lived under worse conditions, but Shaw could use some extra space.

She’s been having none of that lately.

Another lightning strikes just as she reaches the main sliding door, a classic Chinese design with only a slim, white layer of paper hiding what’s behind it.

She thinks Root might appreciate it, given that she has a thing for architectural master works, but Shaw doesn’t have much time to think about that, either. Not when there’s a shadowed form displayed on the door like a projector, the substance on the other side of the entry.

Not when Sameen watches as Root, oblivious to any audience removes the hair tie and her long tresses fall free, their shape becomes slightly disproportionate according to her movements towards the light. 

And after, as Root slowly unties the knot of her robe, and Shaw stands, stock still in the darkness behind the surely cover of the door, she thinks she might have finally figured it out.

.

“Sameen.”

Her eyes meet hazelnut, and the faint scent of coconut invades her senses the more she inhales, Root engulfing her whole.

“Are you here?” She asks. Shaw breathes, the storm still raging outside, and her fingers curl, empty now without the hilt of her sword to hold on to.

Maybe this was all along what it was supposed to feel like, the way her body feels bare with nothing to hide and nothing to show, besides her cold interior. It wouldn’t be so bad, now, if Root kept looking at her with furrowed eyebrows, her breath haggard and rushed.

“Yes,” Shaw murmurs, uncertain of herself for the first time in years, and she raises her palm to grab at the skin graciously offered to her as if it’s a shield. She leans upwards and curves her lips against the cradle of Root's collarbone, and, “yes. I'm here.”

The woman smiles, beaming, white teeth catching light and she leans down, kissing Shaw feverishly. Her hands are digging in the back of her scalp and Sameen feels unsteady as Root's fingers descend.

Her robe is lying somewhere by the bed forgotten, and all she can bring herself to care about is Root’s eyes, and Root's mouth and her moans, her silent demanding and loud taking.

How did she ever end up here?

She sighs, wraps her mouth around a tender nipple and presses her own fingers forward. Root gasps, hotly, in her ear, grinding down and Shaw sighs, sighs, sighs.

Where else could she be?

.

“I'll ruin Her,” Root says.

Shaw laughs, because it’s absurd, how Root is so naïve that she thinks she could corrupt something so divine.

“No you won’t. You can’t. Plus, They want you there. They are prepared.”

She lets the silence flow.

“I'll ruin you,” Root whispers against it.

How far the world has come and how longer it will go, Shaw does not know. But the boat towards the Gates is steady and there are no angry waves on the horizon.

There’s war, and the Underground still hold tight against Right and Good, and Johnathan the Angel is still fighting, and Harold the Wise is still bleeding through his thoughts.

But Sameen Shaw the Guardian had a lesson to learn and the cool breeze that embraces her assures her she did.

“You already have.”

It’s true but she thinks it can’t be that bad. She believes in the story ;

They built the world from darkness, from scratch, and if an Unworthy is dipped in it, They will be the one to drag them out of it.

It can’t be that bad, she thinks, as she lets her fingers brush against Root’s.

It can’t be that bad to be there with her when They do.

.

Zoe the Prophet says, during the pale moon's appearance ;

“There is a way back. There is surviving and saving and hope. There is faith in darkness and darkness in faith, and you are not special just because you got to stick in the middle. God forgives, but They can only do so if you do too. Forgive, learn to love through your soul and then, and only then can you be true.

Besides, she’s hot.”

“Shut up, Zoe.”

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and supporting. Drop a comment as always so I get to meet all of you!


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